Under the pump

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Leaning on the car while filling up with fuel at Bellingen, I had ants in my pants. Why was it taking so long? I felt an urge to Google ‘go-slow Bellingen bowser’, thought Wikipedia might give a fuller explanation and contemplated searching Tinder beside the tank to help pass the time. Seconds, minutes and hours ticked by quicker than the litres dribbled from the prostate-affected proboscis.

From Coffs Harbour, Shlags and Steph had chosen the coast road route to Sydney, while I headed inland, via Bellingen and Armidale, in a bid to beat the traffic. The race was on.

This was not the time to mollycoddle a geriatric gas dispenser. I needed to put a Tiger in my Tank, not a pussy, and was ready to send an ESSO-s to the cashier for some assistance. But then calmness came over me. A tranquil state that matched the serene scene – the beautiful Bellingen Valley.

Although stationary, I was transported back to the 70s and decades before when flocks of Golden Fleece petrol pumps, complete with a merino ram on top, lined the streets. This was a time when the gallons ticked over and the fuel whirled around in the glass bubble on its side; when the sound of the metal dollars and cents figures flicking over and the gentle hum of the bowser’s engine were enough to send you back to sleep next to the esky in the back of the Kingswood. On a road trip, we had all the time in the world.

Enough of this sentimental swill. I had a need for speed and a want to return to the era of immediacy. “Get me Back to the Future Michael!” All it took was a lazy petrol pump to remind me to stay simpatico with my nephews who rightly expect everything to happen now. Note to self: get with it Sime.

As for the car race, it wasn’t really a contest. Shlags and Steph won by an easy four hours or so – about the same amount of time it took me to fill the tank.

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